Chapter 11: A New City, an Old Rival
1076 Words
The chill of London was a different kind of cold. It wasn’t sharp like the northern winters back home, but damp—seeping into Elara’s coat, her shoes, even her thoughts. As the airport shuttle rumbled past rows of brick townhouses and fog-shrouded trees, she hugged her carry-on tightly, pulse thumping louder than the rain.
This was it.
A new continent. A new school. A new life.
She glanced at the acceptance packet crumpled in her lap—the gold seal of the Royal College of Music embossed beside her name. It still didn’t feel real. Not after months of saving every penny, filling out scholarship applications in borrowed time between classes, and studying for transfer exams late into the night while her classmates partied. Not after crying into her pillow the night she told her parents she was leaving, only to be met with a silence that said, you’ll come back once it gets hard.
She didn’t plan to.
The student accommodations weren’t glamorous—an old building with creaky stairs and a heater that barely sputtered—but they were hers. Elara dragged her suitcase up four flights to a tiny room that smelled faintly of lavender and mildew. A narrow bed, a battered desk, and a window that opened to a brick wall. Freedom.
Her first morning began at dawn, jet-lagged and nervous. She’d dressed carefully: beige sweater, black trousers, minimal makeup. She wanted to look serious. Capable. Like someone who belonged.
But inside, she was trembling.
The Royal College’s stone archways towered over her as she stepped through the front gate. Students in scarves and long coats streamed past, instruments slung casually over shoulders—violins, flutes, the occasional cello case.
Elara clutched her course list and headed toward orientation.
The classrooms smelled of polished wood and lemon oil. Her first ensemble class was small—just six students seated in a semi-circle, everyone watching her curiously as she introduced herself.
“Elara Morgan. I transferred in this semester… from New York.”
There were nods, polite smiles. One boy—tall, freckled, with wild red curls—grinned and said, “Good luck surviving Professor Dawkins. She makes grown men cry.”
Elara offered a weak smile. Challenge accepted, she thought.
Her days became a rhythm of classes, practice, part-time work at a bakery three blocks from campus, and nights spent curled under a too-thin blanket, reworking scores by hand. The pay barely covered groceries, and she was still figuring out how to stretch every pound. But for the first time in years, she was doing what she loved.
Even when it was hard.
Especially when it was hard.
It was a Wednesday afternoon, a week into term, when she heard the name she’d both anticipated and dreaded.
“Emily Wu’s back from winter break,” someone whispered outside the practice rooms. “She’s auditioning for the International Showcase next month.”
Elara’s fingers paused mid-scale.
Emily.
They hadn’t spoken since high school. Back then, Emily had been everything Elara wasn’t—poised, privileged, always top of the class without seeming to try. And when Emily had been accepted into RCM right after graduation, Elara had watched from afar, feeling like she’d been left behind.
Now they were in the same halls. The same classes.
And Emily was still ahead.
She saw her the next day in the library.
Emily stood near the sheet music section, flipping through Debussy. Her long black coat was immaculate, makeup perfect. She hadn’t changed a bit.
“Elara?”
Emily’s voice was exactly as she remembered it—soft, with that lilting musicality that could slice if she wanted it to.
Elara turned, forcing a calm smile. “Hi, Emily.”
There was a pause. Then a smile—polished, tight.
“I didn’t know you transferred,” Emily said.
“I wanted a stronger program,” Elara replied simply.
“Well, this place does separate the passionate from the pretenders,” Emily said with a small laugh. “Glad to see you here. Really.”
Elara’s jaw clenched. “Likewise.”
They stood there for a moment too long before Emily added, “If you ever need help catching up, I’d be happy to—”
“I’ll manage,” Elara said quickly.
Emily blinked, then shrugged. “Of course.”
By the end of the week, Emily’s return was all anyone could talk about. She’d performed flawlessly in studio class. She was rumored to be composing an original suite. Professors sang her praises in corridors.
Elara tried to drown it out with work—hands covered in flour during bakery shifts, fingers sore from extra practice hours—but comparison hung over her like smog.
She wasn’t jealous. She was… tired.
Tired of always chasing.
Saturday night, Elara sat alone in the student lounge, sipping weak tea from a paper cup. A text from her mom blinked on her phone: Did you eat today? You look thin in the photo. Underneath it, a reminder from the bursary office: First loan installment processed.
The weight of everything pressed down at once.
She buried her face in her arms, tears pricking hot.
“Hey… you okay?”
The voice was unfamiliar, male, gentle.
She looked up, startled.
A boy about her age stood a few feet away, holding a violin case in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. He had warm brown eyes, soft features, and a calmness that felt like a blanket.
“I—sorry,” she sniffed. “Just… tired.”
“New transfer?”
She nodded.
He extended the mug. “Real tea. Not the stuff from the vending machine.”
She took it, surprised. “Thanks.”
“I’m Finn,” he said, sitting across from her. “Violinist. Third year. You?”
“Elara. Piano. Second year, technically.”
“You’ve got the ‘trying not to drown’ look,” he said with a half-smile. “I had it too, once.”
They talked for an hour—about professors, practice room politics, the best cheap sandwich spots in town. By the end, her chest felt a little less tight.
As he stood to leave, he said, “You’ll be fine, Elara. Just remember, even Mozart had to start somewhere.”
She smiled. “Thanks… Finn.”
And for the first time since she landed in London, Elara believed she might actually be okay.
- Writer
